Nietzel advanced with long strides, breathless from expectation, blissful in hope.  Now he stood at the count’s side, and lifted his eyes to the pictures.  With one rapid glance he swept the whole wall.  Paintings, beautiful, costly paintings, but what cared he for them?  Glorious in the pomp of coloring, and perfect in their truth to nature, they looked down upon him out of their broad gilt frames, but he had no senses for them.  His eyes fastened again and again upon that broad, massive gold frame which hung opposite him in the center of the wall.  The painting which this frame inclosed could not be seen, for it was hidden from view by the green silk drapery hanging before it, and at the side of the frame was suspended a string.  Gabriel Nietzel saw nothing of the paintings, he only saw the green curtain, only the string which kept it fast.  His whole soul spoke in the glance which he directed to them.

Count Schwarzenberg intercepted this glance and smiled.

“You are certainly thinking of Raphael’s exquisite Madonna,” he said, “and because that is always seen from the midst of a green curtain, you suppose, probably, that behind this curtain must also be concealed a Madonna and Child.  Well, we shall see some day.  Stay in your place, stir not, speak not, and perhaps a miracle will take place, and you shall behold una Madonna col Bambino of flesh and blood.  But silence, man, for you well know how it is with treasure diggers:  as soon as you speak, the treasure vanishes.  Now, then, look and stand still!”

He stepped across to the wall and grasped the string.  The curtain flew back and—­there she stood, the Madonna with the Child in her arms, so beautiful, so instinct with life and warmth, as only nature has ever painted and art imitated from nature.  There she stood with that richly tinted olive complexion, with those transparent, softly reddened cheeks, with those full crimson lips, with those large black eyes at once full of mildness and fire, and with that broad and noble brow full of depth of thought and yet full of repose.  And in her arms that sweet child, that vigorous boy so full of life, loosely clad in his little white shirt, that left bare his plump arms and firm legs.  Roses were on his cheeks, dimples in his chin, and in the great black eyes lay the deep, earnest look, full of innocence and wisdom, that is sometimes peculiar to children.

The painter had sunk upon his knees, stretching out both arms to the picture, and from his eyes the tears flowed in clear streams over his cheeks.  But indignantly he shook them away, for they prevented him from seeing the Madonna, his Madonna.  Prayers he murmured up to her, prayers of love and confidence, supplications for steadfastness in danger, for courageous perseverance during separation.  But he ventured not to address them audibly to the beloved Madonna, for he knew that a mere word would have snatched her away from him.